


Moving On

by sephirothflame



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sephirothflame/pseuds/sephirothflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint misses.</p>
<p>His fingers tremble, messing up his shot, and he misses.</p>
<p>The worst part is, he does it more than once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving On

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: post- _Avengers_ , mentions of PTSD and Clint suffering under Loki's mind control, undiagnosed illness/disease and early symptoms of Parkinson's Disease, self-deprecation, heavy Clint/Natasha friendship and un-beta'd.

Clint’s fingers tremble as he lines up his shot; he notices it, but doesn’t panic. It’s adrenaline, he tells himself. His heart is pounding in his chest from running a mile in a little over five minutes, his hands are sweating and his thighs are aching. He’s overexerting himself.  
  
Natasha’s blood burns at the back of Clint’s brain, his eyes blinking rapidly to banish the image and to ignore any residual wetness.  _Natasha is fine_. Natasha is fine and Clint has a job to do, so he takes a deep breath and the trembles fade and he catches his target’s shoulder easily, sending them spiraling to the ground.  
  
Later, Clint sits with his hands clenched between his thighs and tells himself that nothing is wrong. He’s getting too close, too attached. All he needs is a few days to clear his head and he’ll be fine.   
  


* * *

  
  
Natasha shows Clint her stitches when he visits her in the medwing. She’s bruised as all get out, but her face softens when she sees him and it’s as close as Clint is going to get to a smile. “Eleven.”  
  
Smirking, Clint rolls up his sleeve to show her a barely there scratch on his forearm. “Worst I got,” Clint tells her. He doesn’t shy away when Natasha’s nails brush against his skin. “You win this round.”  
  
“I win,” Natasha repeats softly. Her lips ghost in a smile, a barely there twitch that looks foreign on her face. “This doesn’t feel like winning.”  
  
Clint smiles and squeezes Natasha’s fingers. “Tell you what. I’ll sneak back in tonight with some Reubens and pie.” He doesn’t want to leave her alone, cooped up in the medwing until she can get back on her feet. He knows Natasha. He doesn’t feel responsible, no more than he usually does, but he doesn’t want her to suffer alone.  
  
Natasha rolls her eyes, but the corners of her lips twitch and Clint doesn’t miss the smile.  
  


* * *

  
  
Clint takes a week off from work. Which is to say, he informs Fury he’s not going to be coming in for a while and if Fury knows what’s best for him, he won’t follow. Clint is sure he said it more politely than that, but Fury’s still less than impressed.  
  
Nebraska is hot as Hell, but it’s easy to sneak into the TD Ameritrade Park during the College World Series and find an empty seat. He almost misses the Rosenblatt and the closeness of the Henry Doorly Zoo, but it has more to do with a need to kill time than an actual fondness for anything. Clint’s not even sure he likes baseball all that much, he just knows that it’s easy to get lost in the crowd and he likes the abundance of beer and hotdogs.  
  
When he gets tired of baseball and the muggy heat, he travels West with no real destination in mind. He’s got restless energy driving him on and when that isn’t enough to keep him awake and on the road, he pulls over to buy Monster and jerky.  
  
Clint makes it to Seattle in a little over a day and a half, and the first thing he does is find a motel and sleep.   
  


* * *

  
  
No one calls him. No one texts. He’s got a forwarded e-mail from Steve, something Tony had originally sent him, but he can’t focus on reading the words. He’s too tired and his fingers start to tremble when he tries to reply.  
  
It’s gone on long enough that it can’t be adrenaline anymore. Maybe it’s Loki, Clint thinks, finally making his way back into Clint’s head and fucking with him from another galaxy. This is what he gets for not taking his mandatory therapy seriously.  
  
Clint spends the day in bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling sorry for himself. He thinks it might be time to go back, go  _home_ , despite the fact he’s hardly been gone. So much has changed for him recently and he doesn’t know if he knows how to cope.  
  


* * *

  
  
It takes hours for Clint to fall asleep, and when he does manage it, he wakes up on the floor. His elbow smarts but he’s too tired to deal with it, so he props himself up long enough to grab a pillow and blanket and just closes his eyes and tries to get back to sleep.  
  


* * *

 

Bruce is the only one in the tower when Clint comes back and he blinks in surprise. “Natasha said not to expect you back for a few more days.”  
  
Clint doesn’t have a good lie on the tip of his tongue and he sure as hell isn’t telling anyone the truth. “I went from one coast to the next,” Clint says. If that can’t clear his head he doesn’t know what can. He shrugs. “Where’s Natasha?”  
  
“Belgium, I think,” Bruce says. He frowns. “I was just about to make some dinner – “  
  
“I’m not hungry,” Clint replies. He frowns as well, and rubs the back of his neck. “I ate earlier.” He doesn’t know how to leave without feeling like he’s running. “I’ve got to see Fury, anyways.”  
  
Bruce nods his understanding and he doesn’t push Clint. “It’s nice to see you again,” he says, almost awkwardly, and Clint is almost glad to be back.  
  


* * *

  
  
“PTSD,” Fury says slowly.  
  
Clint shrugs a shoulder and then nods. “I don’t know. Maybe.”  
  
For his part, Fury doesn’t look like he thinks Clint’s crazy. He’s annoyed, maybe, but he’s Fury. He’s generally annoyed with Clint with every breath Clint takes.  
  
Clint debates what to say next, but no words come. He can feel the tremble in his fingers starting and he shoves his hands between his thighs to keep Fury from noticing. “I don’t know,” he says again.  
  
“You’re welcome to try talking to Dr. Jones again,” Fury says. “But you’re off the team until I get a full report.”  
  
It should have been obvious that Fury was going to say it, but it still comes as a punch to the chest. Clint nods his head again in a short, jerky motion. “Of course.”  
  
“Barton,” Fury says, his voice dropping – it’s not softer, not lower, but it’s not his usual tone and it sets Clint’s nerves on edge. Fury pauses, like he’s unsure of himself. He claps Clint’s shoulder instead. “Get the fuck out of my office.”  
  
Clint doesn’t hesitate to obey.  
  


* * *

  
  
Dr. Jones listens to Clint’s worries and complaints with silent understanding, legs crossed and an iPad balanced precariously on her knees. Her hands are crossed, her face blank, but talking to her doesn’t make Clint feel better at all.  
  
“PTSD is a possibility,” she says, eventually. “Given your file.” She doesn’t mention that most of it is blacked out, because even she doesn’t have clearance to know half the shit he’s gotten up to since joining SHIELD. “You’ve suffered from it before?”  
  
“That’s what they told me,” Clint says, shrugging a shoulder in a quick, indifferent motion. He was almost twenty years younger then and that didn’t feel anything like this does now, but Clint is hopeful. PTSD, he can deal with, anything else? Not so much.  
  
“We’ll work together,” Dr. Jones says kindly. She smooths her skirt over her thighs and stands up gracefully. “Have my secretary find you an appointment for next week and we’ll see if we can’t get you back on your feet.”  
  
She’s young and earnest and a little too blond, but against his better judgment, Clint can’t hate her. He doesn’t know if he believes a word she says, but he doesn’t want to shoot her in the face, and he supposes that’s a start.  
  


* * *

  
  
Natasha brings Clint chocolates shaped like cupids and Clint carefully puts his College World Series ballcap over her red hair. He adjusts it and grins, ignoring the way she rolls his eyes at him. They sit on the rooftop eating chocolate and talk about nothing at all.  
  
Clint is glad Natasha is back. She understands him better than anyone else ever will.  
  


* * *

  
  
Coffee spills over the countertop, splashing his hands, and Clint sucks his fingers in his mouth almost immediately. He stares at Pepper and Tony blankly as they stare back at him, until eventually Tony coughs and says, “hey, word to the wise, the coffee might be hot.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Clint says around the fingers in his mouth.  
  
Pepper rolls her eyes and helps Clint clean up the mess wordlessly. She tops off his coffee cup and hands it back to him, and Clint accepts it with a forced smile.  
  
His fingers are still shaking, but Clint turns his back to them and leaves before they get the chance to notice. An archer who can’t keep his fingers steady isn’t much use to any team ever, let alone one that has to save the world on a semi-regular basis.

Clint knows Pepper and Tony are sharing looks, either concerned about or annoyed at him, but Clint doesn’t let himself care.  
  


* * *

  
  
Clint gives up on sleeping in bed. More often than not he ends up on the floor, blankets tangled around his waist and legs, and the bruises on his elbows and shoulders never get a chance to fade. It’s easier to just make himself a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor and sleep there. He’s slept in worse conditions, for sure, and at least while he’s in the Tower he feels relatively safe.  
  


* * *

  
  
Natasha holds up a purple sticky note with Clint’s sloppy handwriting on it. “I didn’t know it was possible for your writing to get any worse, Barton.”  
  
Clint takes it from her and rubs his thumb over the words. “I was in a rush,” he lies. He presses the sticky part over Natasha’s exposed collarbone and smooths it down. “Now, did you get what I asked or not?”  
  
“Not,” Natasha replies. She plucks the sticky note off her skin and crumples it up. “I’m not your assistant. If you want something, get it yourself.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Clint asks, “do you want to go shopping, then?”  
  
“No,” Natasha replies. “But I will if you buy me vodka.”  
  
“Fine,” Clint huffs, but he doesn’t mind. Buying Natasha alcohol isn’t much of a concession at all, especially if she invites him over to drink and bitch about things. Which, to be fair, she usually does.  
  


* * *

  
  
“I’m going to be honest,” Dr. Jones says, fingers skimming over her skirt. “I’m not entirely sure we’re dealing with PTSD.”  
  
The words catch Clint by surprise, and he doesn’t know how to respond. The restlessness, the twitching, the trouble sleeping. If there’s anything he could place his money on, it would have been PTSD. “I don’t,” Clint starts, then frowns.  
  
“I’m not saying you don’t have residual guilt over what happened,” Dr. Jones continues. “The things you’re feeling are real and valid. I’m just not entirely sure the two things are connected.”  
  
Clint just stares, waiting for an explanation.   
  
“I’ve got the name and number of another doctor,” Dr. Jones says. “A medical doctor. We’ll see what he has to say and work from there. I still want to work with you. We can still make progress here.”  
  
“Right,” Clint says. He doesn’t let himself focus, doesn’t absorb her words. He accepts a business card when Dr. Jones passes him one, but he doesn’t look at it before tucking it into the pocket of his vest.  
  
“Clint,” Dr. Jones says. “We’ll figure this out.”  
  
Clint isn’t sure he believes her.  
  


* * *

  
  
Clint goes to the archery range. He already spent two hours testing out new arrows and tips that Tony developed, trying to familiarize himself with a new bow, but it’s the only thing he can think to do to relieve stress that won’t draw attention to himself.  
  
He doesn’t say anything when Natasha shows up and she watches him quietly until he runs out of arrows and he relaxes his bow.  
  
“You want to go out?” Natasha asks.  
  
“No,” Clint says. He picks up his supplies to put them back where they belong. “But I do want to get drunk.”  
  
Natasha nods her understanding and cuffs Clint’s shoulder when he comes close enough. She’s not good at offering affection, but Clint accepts it for what she intended.  
  


* * *

  
  
Clint skips his doctor appointment and his next three therapy sessions. He skips all the rescheduled appointments and eventually Dr. Jones’ secretary gives up on trying to contact him.  
  
It’s better. Clint can live with his issues. He can live with the guilt. He’s never been one to lean on someone else or wait for them to make him feel better in the first place, he doesn’t know why he thought he would try. It clearly isn’t working the way it was supposed to.  
  
Clint is better off on his own and he has his own coping mechanisms. The fact his hands are trembling more and more has nothing to do with him quitting therapy and he’s spent his most of his life feeling restless.  
  
He’ll learn to cope. He has to. Clint doesn’t have any other choice.  
  


* * *

  
  
“You look,” Bruce starts. He looks unsure of himself, but non-confrontational. “Sore.”  
  
Clint sips at his coffee and stares unblinkingly at Bruce. “I like sleeping on the floor.”  
  
That catches Tony’s attentions, and he twists around on the couch to stare at the both of them. “What’s wrong with your bed?”

It shouldn’t surprise Clint that Tony is annoyed; Tony had design input on every square inch of the Tower, went out of his way to make sure every room he’d made for their team was what they want and needed. Clint sleeping on the floor instead of the pillow top bed is probably a personal attack in Tony’s book.  
  
Clint shrugs his shoulder. Something he’s been doing a lot of lately, in lieu of answering. It should bother him, but it doesn’t. “I’m used to sleeping in the dirt and in cramped quarters. I like the floor.”  
  
“You are so weird,” Tony says, but his tone is mostly fond.  
  
“I know a chiropractor,” Bruce says, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “He’s nice. Professional. It could help with your soreness.”  
  
“I never said I was sore,” Clint says, but it’s a lie. He can feel his shoulders hunching and his back aches from spending so many nights on the floor and all the moving he does in training.  
  
“You know a chiropractor,” Tony says slowly. “Or you  _know_  a chiropractor?”  
  
Bruce surprises them all by throwing a piece of toast at Tony, and Clint takes the opportunity to slip away while Tony sputters in indignation and something that can only be described as twisted pride.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Agent Barton,” Fury says, his tone clipped. “I’ve got a report on my desk saying that you’ve stopped your counseling sessions.” A pause. “The ones that you requested to go to in the first place.”  
  
Clint fights the urge to shuffle awkwardly and ignores the soreness in his arms and legs. “It wasn’t helping. I got the clear for not having PTSD, didn’t see the reason to keep going.”  
  
Fury stares at Clint and doesn’t say a word. It’s tempting to just sit and stare at him, but Clint’s feeling restless and exhausted and he’d like to find somewhere dark and cool to curl up.  
  
“I didn’t think it was necessary to continue,” Clint tries again. “I’d like to be on active duty again.”  
  
It’s obvious that Fury is unsure of how to continue. He rubs the dark hair on his chin thoughtfully and leans against the desk in his office. “Dr. Jones suggests that you continue counseling,” Fury says. “She agrees that it’s not PTSD, but she recommends a doctor visit.”  
  
“I know,” Clint says. He does. He was there. He doesn’t need it thrown in his face.  
  
“Do what you’re told and you’re back on the team,” Fury says. “If you quit again, you’re off for good.”  
  
It doesn’t sound fair to Clint, but he bites his tongue to keep from arguing it. He’s been given a golden opportunity and he’s damn well going to take it.  
  


* * *

  
  
Clint goes back to therapy because he doesn’t have a choice in the matter, but there isn’t time to schedule a doctor’s appointment before he’s called back to the field. He’s missed it too much to feel guilty, but he isn’t sure his body agrees with him.  
  
His muscles are sore, his back aches. His chest feels tight, and he’s not sure if that’s anxiety or frustration at himself for letting himself slack off on his training. He trained, of course, because it’s his job, but he feels like he should have tried harder. He should have worked harder.  
  
Clint doesn’t have time to let himself dwell on self-pity though. There are robots storming through lower Manhattan, blowing shit up left and right, and now one is entirely sure how to stop them besides blowing them up in return.  
  
The work is grueling but familiar and Clint falls into the grain easily.  
  


* * *

  
  
Clint misses.  
  
His fingers tremble, messing up his shot, and he misses.  
  
The worst part is, he does it more than once.  
  


* * *

  
  
Natasha finds Clint in the air vents above one of the break rooms in the Helicarrier. She pulls herself up into the tight space and doesn’t look surprised when Clint makes no attempt to move over and make space for her. “Fury’s looking for you.”  
  
“If Fury can’t find me, he’s not trying hard enough,” Clint says quietly. He rests his chin on his forearm and watches Natasha with tired eyes. “Who knows?”  
  
“Fury,” Natasha replies. “Tony couldn’t keep his mouth shut, so Bruce and Thor.” She wiggles her way closer, until Clint can feel her breath on his skin. “They’re worried about you.”

“I’m an archer who can’t hit his target,” Clint spits out. He bites at his forearm in frustration and makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “Tasha, I’m useless if I can’t even hit a target.”  
  
“You worry too much,” Natasha says quietly. She tugs at Clint’s arm to keep him from biting himself again and looks at him like he’s a stubborn child. “Clint.”  
  
“There’s something wrong with me,” Clint tells her. “This wasn’t just a bad day, Tasha. I’ve been getting tremors for months and I fall out of my bed every damn night and I can’t – “ He lets his head thump against the vent, since Natasha won’t relinquish her grasp on his arm. “I can’t.”  
  
Natasha is quiet for a while, her thumb brushing against his skin gently, like she’s not quite sure how she’s supposed to comfort him. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Clint.”  
  
It’s hard to force himself to look at her, but somehow he manages it. Clint almost wishes they weren’t facing each other in a cramped vent because he thinks he could go for a hug. Hugs make people feel better; Tony’s notorious for hugging the team and even Steve and Bruce are picking up on the habit.  
  
“We’ll figure this out,” Natasha says, and Clint thinks he might actually believe her.  
  


* * *

  
  
Fury listens to Clint quietly, surprisingly calm. He rubs his chin and looks thoughtful as Clint finishes. “Do you have any idea what it is?”  
  
Clint wants to ask if Fury’s stupid, but he knows what Fury means. He jerks a shoulder in a shrug and shakes his head. “Gonna be honest, I try not to think about it. I was kind of hoping it would just go away.”  
  
Fury nods. “You have an appointment in the morning with Dr. Nakamura. If you miss it, you’re off the team forever, no exceptions.”  
  
Clint swallows. He tries to fight back the feelings of anxiety and disbelief and shame, and somehow manages to nod. His hands shake and he doesn’t try to shove them between his thighs to stop them. “Of course.”  
  
“We’ll figure this out, Agent Barton,” Fury says. He squeezes Clint’s shoulder and Clint tries not to shrug off the touch.  
  


* * *

  
  
Tony is waiting for Clint when he gets back to the tower, but Steve and Bruce are sitting on either side of him and keep speaking in hushed tones. They’re trying to talk him out of something, Clint guesses, but Natasha just shoulder checks him and Clint has no choice but to walk past them to get to the fridge and pull out a beer.  
  
“I’m apparently forbidden from asking what the Hell happened,” Tony says, pushing himself to his feet and leaning against the kitchen island. “So, I’ll settle for asking where the Hell have you been?”  
  
Clint wants to ask how someone managed to forbid him from doing anything, but decides against it. He’s sure Steve and Bruce are perfectly capable of being manipulative when they need to be. “I had to talk to Fury.”  
  
There’s a tension in the room then, and then Steve asks, “are you off the team?” His voice is quiet, and he sounds genuinely concerned.  
  
Clint’s fingers tighten around his bottle but he doesn’t know why. It’s actually kind of nice to know Steve is worried, Clint just doesn’t know how to respond to that. He takes a sip and shrugs his shoulder, yet again. “Depends.”  
  
Tony opens his mouth, but Steve pokes him in the shoulder hard. He scowls at Steve but bites the inside of his cheek, thinking over his words carefully. “We won’t let Fury kick you off the team.”  
  
“You might not have a choice,” Clint says bitterly.  
  
“There’s always a choice,” Bruce interjects quietly. He hesitates for a moment before joining the others in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. “And we’ve chosen you.”  
  
Clint opens his mouth and then shuts it again. He has no idea what to say or what the Hell is even going on. He looks over at Natasha and narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”  
  
Natasha takes Clint’s beer from his hands and takes a sip; her nose wrinkles, but she keeps drinking regardless. “I didn’t threaten a soul,” she says simply. She bumps her shoulder into his side again and passes his beer back. “We don’t want to do this if you aren’t with us.”  
  
“People will get hurt,” Clint points out.

“No,” Steve says, shaking his head. “We won’t let that happen. We’ll help people, of course we’ll help people. We just won’t do it with SHEILD if you aren’t a part of the team as well.”  
  
There’s nothing for Clint to say, so he nods mutely. There’s a tremor in his hands and he doesn’t try to hide it, tries to ignore the way everyone tries to act like they don’t notice. He takes another sip of his beer and sets the bottle on the counter. “Okay,” he says.  
  
“So, what’s the plan?” Tony asks. He drops his forearms to the island and leans forward.  
  
“I’ve got an appointment tomorrow afternoon,” Clint says. It’s a lie, but only by a few hours. He doesn’t know how to deal with this many inquiring minds about something so personal. It’s comforting though, somehow, and Clint doesn’t understand.  
  
“You know we’re here for you,” Bruce says gently. He smiles, softly, and Clint forces a smile in return.  
  
“I know,” Clint says, and he does. He really does.  
  


* * *

  
  
Natasha is waiting for Clint first thing in the morning, leaning against his car casually with a College World Series cap pulled over her red hair. She looks up at him and the corner of his lips twitch up in a smile.  
  
“I can do this on my own, you know,” Clint says. “I do know how to talk to a doctor.”  
  
Natasha lifts her shoulder in a shrug, a mockery of the gesture Clint is so fond of using. “You don’t have to,” Natasha tells him. “Not anymore.”  
  
Clint’s hands are trembling and he’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with whatever it is that’s plaguing him. “I drive,” he says, and Natasha just snorts and says, “you wish.”  
  
For the first time in a long time, Clint gets the feeling that maybe things really will be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the anonymous Avenger's Kink Meme prompt _He starts to notice the tremors when he's preparing a shot - and everyone else starts to notice when he misses._ , back in Round 8.


End file.
